I'll Carry You Home Tonight
by BellsOfRomeToll
Summary: "I guess-I just thought, maybe we could find new ways to fall apart." They are broken, parts of a chipped heart, but together they form a whole. Post-Mockingjay
1. They sob with untold nightmares

Title: By the time the bar closes, and you feel like falling down (I'll carry you home tonight)

Fandom: Hunger Games

Rating: PG

Words: 1,894

Characters: Johanna/Gale, past Johanna/Finnick, past Gale/Katniss

Warnings: Minor spoilers of 3 books.

After the war, Johanna hears that Gale Hawthorne has moved to District 2. A few hours later, she's stepping off the train and knocking on a smooth door.

When he opens the door, she can see his eyes open in shock, taking in her hunched shoulders, limp hair, hollow cheeks and empty brown eyes, _everything. _

"Don't look so surprised, _Soldier Hawthorne_," she snaps, relishing the involuntary flinch when she uses the name they gave him (when everything else they took away). She still hacks where she can.

"Mason," he manages, still blocking the doorway.

"Are you going to let me in, Hawthorne?" She cuts out.

When he finally lets her in, she shoves past him. He doesn't offer to carry her bag (it's got her axe; she doesn't trust anyone with it; she has to have it with her _allthetime_) and she doesn't bother to ask him where to go (the house is too empty; with only him and the past).

It is only natural to seek comfort in one another, especially when there's so much behind them (except it's never behind; its always above them—drowning, choking them). But what they do, there's no whispered words of love, no mummers of reassurance, no wrapped arms of protection. She knows he's thinking of the girl on fire (who he thought he had forever to cherish, but forever's only a few short years), and he knows she's thinking of the boy with the sea green eyes (who's heart will forever, forever, forever remain with the poor mad girl; never her, her who is too cold, too brittle, too bitter).

The next day, there's always an avoidance of eyes, before inevitability sets in, and grey meets brown. There's always that vulnerability that breaks the other (but not one says a word, because they both know who they're thinking of).

The silence burns up, choking them on the ashes, coating them with layers of hurt (but the scars, they shine so bright). Both wish for home (but his is filled with mines waiting to be exploded; hers is full of the past where the sparkling eyes of her family follow her) and they stay, in District 2.

"I saw Annie's letter," He ventures, one night. She stiffens, because this is a subject never to be touched _nevernevernever_. "She says her son…he turns 1 in a few weeks, and would you like to visit them, maybe say hi?"

She sees him, the boyish smile (all for the girl with the flowing dark hair), and the sparkling green eyes that light up (only when he thinks of District 4). She can imagine his son, with the same innocent smile, the sea green eyes, and that's enough reason to stay away. (She cannot handle this; knowing that she was naïve enough to have hope.)

"Do you want to go? It'd be nice to be out, for once, to see the sea—" And that's enough to break her. "Damnit Gale! You know I won't go—" and suddenly, she's too tired, too tired of trying to mend her shattered heart, broken body. She tastes salt in her mouth, unfamiliar.

He doesn't comfort her, try to tell her that it'll be alright (time heals all wounds, but not when it has ravaged, and scattered, leaving a large, gaping hole), because damnit, he's broken just as bad as her.

He never mentions District 4 again, and she never says anything about District 12.

Sometimes, she wakes up, axe ready in her hand, imagining that _they_ are there; the people she mercilessly killed. Some have the look of acceptance—they know they've been dead, always. But most have this look of fear—_I don't want to die; I'm too young, too young._ She used to think winning was a form of mercy—at least she didn't die; she could still live. But she realizes—she never died; but she doesn't live either. The next morning, he looks at her with something like sorrow, and she thinks she must have been screaming in her sleep.

She remembers the first time she tried to take a bath. She saw the water, glinting, and remembered the large water tub they floated her in, time after time; remembered the explosions of needle-like electric blue sparks, all over her; remembered that she couldn't understand how Finnick loved the water, if it did this all the time. She remembered _pain_. She remembered and shook so hard, she never took a bath, except for the occasional spit bath.

Once, Gale tells her that "they have to go out to meet people; it's not healthy to stay cooped up". And she feels like punching him—who is he to say what is healthy when he pines after District 12 and seeks comfort in her, but is really only seeing the Girl on Fire? She tells him that and his eyes—full of the ashes that choke them—they flash with hurt (she doesn't believe that he can feel hurt—haven't they been through it all?) But he does not say anything, except walk off. She hears the water running, hitting the bottom, punching her gut, unexpected, and she loses her breath (she remembers—everything; the drowning; the choking; the pain; _everything_).

Minutes later, he grabs her by her (stick-thin) wrist. He expects a fight (she did win, after all, and they punch drywalls all the time) but her eyes are empty, dead. He wonders if this is how she was, before.

She sees the gently lapping water—she will never hear it again; the screams, before her lungs are drowned—and remembers it all (she should have known; it never_never_ goes away).

He pushes her, toward the blue, blue water. "Get in, Mason," he orders roughly, because he doesn't know how else to do this. "_Damnit! _You have to get over it Mason!" She resists his strength. "Stop resisting. It has to be done, you know that, one way or another!" Whatever fight she had in her, it suddenly deflates.

In the silence that follows, he realizes she's shaking.

"They killed my family, 2 weeks after," she whispers. When she turns to face him, all that's left is the broken, vulnerable young girl she hid all the time, under layers and layers of brusque and bravado. He wonders when she broke.

"They dunked me, in the water, then put me—in the chair, and over and over and over…Gale—I can't—I can't—" The layers are gone now, leaving only a broken girl in its wake.

"You have to," He starts and then falters, "You—you could think of something else—like—Finn—" The way she folds into herself—he wonders if Finnick Odair left more than a wife and baby behind; if he left this mess of a heart, this broken body.

He doesn't know what to do so he holds her, while her empty eyes glaze over and she stares brokenly straight in front of her. Occasionally, her mouth forms words her lips don't speak. He wonders what nightmares she's reliving, what inferno she's burning in.

One night, when they're together (and really, it's the only time they feel remotely _normal_), Gale gasps, "I love you" so softly it's barely intelligible. But she catches it anyway. She should have known (and she did, she did, really) that he would always be thinking of _her_, District 12 (and never her, her who was all angles). But to have him say it—she wonders what's happening to her heart (it feels like it's breaking—but is that even possible, when your heart was never whole?)

Weeks later, she's fighting nausea—and doubt—and heading to the doctor's. And it can't be—_it can't damnit_—because there was never any love, no affection—not when he still thinks of the girl on fire, the girl whose eyes still had rays of hope shining through (and not her, whose eyes have no light in them, the only fight all physical and punches) and her…she doesn't know who to think of because she's too broken to heal, to touch.

She decides on leaving (because really that's the best option) and returning to her ghost town—where her family stare at her with haunting eyes and whisper _why didn't you save me? _over and over—to start over. She tries not to think of District 4, where there's Annie, and the innocent sea green eyes. She tries not to think of how damaged it will be—with a mother like that, so empty, so broken; how could it ever be whole?

He catches her in the midst, packing in her axe. She whirls around, axe a familiar weight in one hand, the other wrapped around her abdomen instinctively. She sees his eyes on the sharp axe that glinted with the tainted blood of the ghosts, and she knew he saw the crazed girl who threw the axe straight between District 12's eyes. His eyes flash down to her lower hand, which drops immediately. His eyes don't drop that questioning look though. The war taught them all never to trust anything. She knows the game is up.

So she tells him. "I went to the doctors' today." She says, before she has to clear her throat. There's this strange lump in her throat.

His eyes glance back down to her hand that's dropped uselessly against her side, then to her abdomen. His eyes flicker, for a second, towards her bag and flung-open closet and back to her eyes.

Realization flashes in his eyes.

She looks away, because she doesn't want to see the accusation in his eyes, the guilt that he could never feel the same way.

"Johanna—" Gale starts. "Don't Gale, _don't damnit!_" She snaps, because she can't bear any pity and those grey eyes—they cloud with something like grief. She wishes this had never happened because he will always love the girl with the deadly bow and arrow.

She shoves the axe into her bag and it thuds against the bottom, a dull, empty sound. As she moves past him, he moves to grab her arm. "Johanna," he tries again, "It's okay—" and once again, she cuts him off because _it can never be okay,_ not when her heart's shattering. She wants to tell him about how Finnick used her—unintentional, but the deed was still done—and how she thought that maybe this was her happy ending—but she was so naïve, so young, to actually believe it. She wants to tell him that she had thought _this _was her happy ending. But most of all, she wants to tell him how much it _hurt_, when she realized that it wasn't—that she would never, _never ever_, have a happy ending.

"_It's not, Hawthorne," _she says, and yanks free of his grip.

She thinks it's the last time she's ever going to see him, so she stops in the doorway and casts a final glance at him. His eyes are full of sorrow—and she thinks maybe hers are too—and for a moment he opens his mouth, then thinks better of it and shuts it again.

She looks away and, hoisting the bag up on her shoulders, she leaves, towards District 7, back to her ghost town. He doesn't make a sound of protest as she leaves.


	2. They struggle with burdens past

A/N: My apologies to all you lovely readers for not posting this earlier, but here's a chappy to make you happy!

* * *

The train slows to a stop and the all too familiar trees greets her in a slow mocking smile. As she steps off the train with her bag (now half-full), her lips twist in an ironic smile and she thinks, Home sweet home. It's the closest she has to one anyway. Except-she couldn't think about that now, not when she'd left it (not when her heart stirred with pain and something else). By the time she reaches the Victor's Village, she has seen close to no one, and those who have appeared, they inevitably shy away, because she is the one slashes, the one who kills with a grin (but can't they see, there is no grin, only a sob for repentance, for forgiveness from a god she does not know). In her dreams, she's haunted by her ghosts, haunted by the cries of help (the cries of [i]Why didn't you save me?[/i]). She wonders if he still thinks of her-or if he's moved on and found another who accepts that the Girl on Fire will always take precedence-but this is too unbearable so she pushes it away. She tells herself that she has to move on too; except she can't-_it's_ always kicking, reminding her that he will _always_ be there. It's too late anyway-she's miles away, in District 7 with only her ghosts and the child. Every morning, there's bile up her throat and she's always leaning over the sink, shaking slightly, shoving back her cropped short hair with one hand, the other steadying herself, because right now, there's no one to be her support (_and for_ _forever_, a voice taunts). Every night, she wakes up, drenched in her sweat and her past, automatically reaching for a hand that is no longer there, and her heart clenches with disappointment that crushes. And in between-there is nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one to go to.

* * *

He snaps up, eyes scanning the darkened room for any threats, hand grabbing for a sign of life, that he was still human. His hand rests on a shoulder, moving up and down in the rhythm of sleep, and for a moment, the tension seeps out of him. In the grey borderland between sleep and consciousness where he drifts, where monsters and ghosts haunt him, a wave of relief crashes over him. It's alright, then. The shoulder moves suddenly, and a sleepy voice murmurs, "Gale?" _It's not her_, he suddenly realizes. _She_ had brown hair, soft and cropped to her chin, but this girl (after all, she was just as innocent) has flowing blonde hair and ice-blue eyes. "It's nothing," he reassures her, as he fights back longing and anger at himself. The rest of the night, he spends it tossing and turning. The next morning, as he has sees the blonde off, all he can see is brown eyes full of hurt and resentment as she turns away. She does not seem to realize it, but her hand rests protectively on her abdomen as she pushes past him. It's over this that his heart squeezes, painfully so. It's over, this he knows, but he can't help but wish otherwise. Every day, the scene where she exits his life replays over and over. He can see the resentment in her eyes and he wonders if he was that unsuitable, if he couldn't be trusted around children. She did not want him in her (and he can't say _their_, because then they would still have a chance at hope, at life together) child's life, this is obvious. It does not stop him from wondering how she is now. Does she still think of him, think of the life they had together before all this? He does not blame the child, nor her, but blames himself. Is he that undesirable, that much of a monster? His heart still aches for her, a million times worse than it did for Katniss. He is over her now-he realized that long before, and he feels relief; but with that comes the inevitable sinking feeling-the feeling he'd once again lost someone (he loved her-_no, she's not gone_) to some other where. He's always been rash, impulsive and impatient (he regrets what he did to the Nut-which is why he's correcting his mistake now, as much as possible). It's no different now. He has to know how she's doing. He sits down and picks up a pen and begins composing a letter to someone whom he knows will understand and help him. As he seals the letter, he feels a knot of tension, apprehension-hope?-in his stomach, and hopes for the best.

* * *

She reaches for the cupboard often, and her hand curves around the familiar neck of the sloshing liquid that will make her forget _everything_-before she remembers. There is now this-inside her. Sometimes, she can hear it, innocent and not scarred by the world she lives in. _Mommy, why do these people scream? Why are they covered in red? Mommy, mommy, save me from them-Save me!_ And she can hear it's gurgled whimpers for help and her heart shrivels. How can she save it, when she's drowning in the guilt, in the blood that forever taints her hands? And every morning, she walks past the cupboard and temptation seizes her, clutching in a vice-like grip. She remembers a story told to her an age ago (when everything was so innocent, so white) about this two people, Adam and Eve, and the forbidden apple. She doesn't remember the details of the story, but she does remember the apple. In the end, they ate the forbidden apple. And every morning, she inches closer and closer to the cupboard, before a kick from the depths of her bring her back to the harsh reality. One day, she opens the cupboard and sees the bottle in its tempting delight. She recalls when _he_ once told her while putting the bottle far out of their reach, "We're in this, together." For a moment, her heart is spiteful and she wants to do exactly the opposite of what he wanted. After all, it's over and he has given up already (if he was even there in the first place; but that hurts her heart too much so she pushes it away). By this time, her hand has reached out and gripped what used to take away her pain and suffering. She knows this is the coward's way out, but she's so sick of _everything_, so sick of the pain, so sick of the guilt and heaviness that weighs down whenever she feels the swell of her stomach. She wants to forget how he said _"I love you"_ to someone that would never be her; wants to forget how he never stopped her as she walked away; but most of all, she wants to forget how she had hoped (he gave her hope; something she hadn't had for a long, long time) he would run after her and take her into his arms and beg her to stay-but he never did (and this is not her happy ending, remember?). But oh, how she wishes he had really whispered "I love you" to her. She suddenly feels a kick, harder than usual. Maybe _it_ can tell what she's going to do and is trying to stop her, once more, just like the previous times-but she's determined not to let it change her mind this time. She's had enough of this guilt, this doubt that plagues her, whenever she thinks of _it_. It's a reminder, all the time, of what she had, before all this happened. A sudden surge of anger and longing clash in their battle. Anger wins out and she yanks the bottle close, ready to let go of everything. A gulp-and the balloons of burden will float up to the sky, up, up and away. An insistent rap sounds on her door. She almost drops her bottle (but that would be such a waste, such a waste) in her surprise. Almost no one (although who is she kidding-_none_ have ever bothered to visit, not even as a welcome home; not when they have heard and seen her, in her gory glory, with the axe spinning, familiar, in her hand-it would horrify her district, she knew, to know the hands that cut wood for them so many a time could just as easily cut the fragile thread of a life and leave wide innocent eyes gazing terrified and lifeless) has ever knocked on her door, so who can this be? Another rap, this time softer and less sure (but she hears it all the same, with senses sharpened). Wariness and curiosity bubbles, an unfamiliar sensation, as she steps towards the door, bottle unconsciously in hand. When she finally opens the door, the bottle slips from her palm and onto the weathered floor, smashing into pieces, liquid sloshing and spilling out, not unlike the world she has carefully re-constructed.

* * *

A/N: MUAHAHAHAHAH! Left all of you with a lovely cliffy; till next time!


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